


The Wrath Of An Angel

by AnnikaWinchester



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 08:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnikaWinchester/pseuds/AnnikaWinchester
Summary: During a heated argument, Aziraphale loses control and hurts his best friend.





	The Wrath Of An Angel

The Wrath Of An Angel

The worst day in Aziraphale's life began like every bad day: with a stubbed toe. From then on, it all went downhill. One disaster was followed by the next. Spilled tea, annoying customers, bad sushi, a police raid (in fact not the first in Aziraphale's life - the inconvenience of a shady neighborhood), and one terrified pigeon, that had flown through one of the broken shop windows pooping all over the place in its panic.

Aziraphale was searching his shop for a hex bag - how else could one explain this series of misfortunate events, if not by a curse - when somebody opened the door. Rather loudly. "Crowley," he exclaimed in surprise as the demon staggered into the shop, grinning widely. 

"Angel", greeted Crowley, tipping his imaginary hat. Without waiting for an invitation, he made his way to the back of the bookshop, where he collapsed onto the old couch.

On any other day, Aziraphale would have wondered why his best friend seemed to be completely drunk. On any other day, his first reaction would have been concern. Today, however, he had no patience for the everyday dramas of a demon.

Therefore, he crawled out from under his desk and looked at Crowley, one eyebrow raised.

"Crowley, my dear, please forgive me, but I am really busy today."

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Aziraphale felt guilty. It was not in his nature to be dismissive. Not towards Crowley. He probably would have apologized immediately had Crowley at that moment not stretched out his legs on the coffee table.

"Come on, angel, let's drink a few bottles of wine and chat about dreadful old times."

"Would you please take your feet off my table?"

Crowley stared first at him, then at his feet, then at the table and then at Aziraphale again. The angel could hear Crowley's drunken brain rattle.

“What?”

Aziraphale sighed and could not stop the impatience from slipping into his voice. "Could you please take your dirty shoes off my antique coffee table?"

"My dirty ... excuse me," Crowley protested indignantly, but at least he put his feet on the floor. "My shoes are not dirty."

In fact, Crowley's shoes were never dirty. No dirt in the world would dare to approach the polished snakeskin shoes closer than three meters.

"And since when do you care so much about your coffee table, anyway?"

"Since I bought it 80 years ago."

"Nonsense." Crowley took the sunglasses off his nose, almost stabbing his right eye in the process.

"You never cared about your furn… furni… furniture. I mean...” He reached for one of the cushions and glared at it as if it were personally responsible for all the suffering in the world.

Offended, Aziraphale crossed his arms in front of him. "What's wrong with my cushions?"

“They’re tartan.”

“Tartan is stylish!”

"No, Aziraphale. Tartan is not stylish. Perhaps it has been once. A long, long, long...," at this point Crowley hiccuped, "long, long time ago. Which would definitely explain the smell." Crowley stuck his tongue out to examine the cushion. “Yup. Old cat lady.”

"Would you please stop licking my cushions?"

"Alright alright," Crowley grumbled, rolling his eyes. "You're in a fine mood today ..."

Slowly but surely, Aziraphale lost his patience. “Sorry that I don’t feel the desire to spend my time with a very rude demon today. A demon that is absolutely drunk on top of that.”

“Drunk? Me? Naaaaa…” he dismissed with a grin. "But while we're at it, do you have some wine left?”

"Crowley, I'll say it one last time now: I'm busy!"

“Is that so?” That damned demon actually had the nerve to look at him with narrowed eyes. "What are you doing?"

“I’m reading Oscar Wilde.” Of course Aziraphale had not been reading Wilde, but he knew it would annoy Crowley. Crowley had never liked Oscar. Because of his arrogant nature. At least, that was what Crowley would say, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley had always been quite unhappy about sharing his best friend. In secret, Aziraphale felt very flattered by that and mentioned Oscar as little as possible so as not to embarrass Crowley. Today, however, he enjoyed how Crowley's mood worsened significantly. That alone should have been a warning to him. Normally, he would never say something to upset Crowley on purpose. Quite the contrary, he loved making his best friend laugh.

“Stupid Oscar Wilde.” Scowling, Crowley rolled off the couch and stumbled to the bookshelf where Aziraphale kept his favorite books. He reached for the first edition of Wilde and waved it through the air. Aziraphale's heart almost stopped.

"Careful, Crowley!"

"What? You can recite everything that is written in here, anyway. Hell, _I_ can recite everything. As often as you’ve read this damned book to me…"

"Oh, since when do you listen to me when I read to you?"

"Always," Crowley replied, looking genuinely hurt for a moment. But then he snorted and threw the book on the desk. Aziraphale pulled it protectively against his chest and glared angrily at Crowley.

"What does someone like you know about literature?"

“Someone like me?”

"It would be new to me that demons like to read."

“Oh, here we go again. Yes, Aziraphale, you are an angel and I am a demon. We've all got that by now."

“Don’t patronize me.”

"It is not my fault that you have an existential crisis every 50 years. _Oh no, I fraternize with a demon. I am a bad, bad angel_.”

"It's not in my nature to break rules after all!"

"Your rules are nonsense," Crowley exclaimed. In fact, he seemed a lot more sober than a few minutes ago. Understandable. It had been a long time since the two friends had such a fierce argument. "Heaven comes up with the most stupid rules imaginable!"

"Now you sound like a stubborn child."

"And you sound like a good little soldier. You are so clever, Aziraphale. How can someone so clever still believe in Heaven? How can you be so naïve?"

“I am not naïve!”

“Yes, you are. You have no will of your own.”

“It’s enough, Crowley!”

"And when the next Flood comes, what will you do? Only watch again?"

"Crowley, I said enough!" Aziraphale banged his fist on the desk. And realized immediately what a fatal mistake he had made.

Searing light exploded under his hand. _The wrath of an angel_. A heavenly weapon that God had given to every angel at the beginning of time to destroy evil.

Time itself seemed to hold its breath. Aziraphale would never forget Crowley's eyes filling with terror. In the next second his body was caught in the explosion and thrown backwards. With no chance of catching himself, Crowley crashed into the bookshelf. The wood shattered loudly under the impact and Aziraphale had to watch his best friend being buried under boards and books.

The noise was followed by an unnatural silence. Even the angel's heart had stopped beating.

"Crowley!" With a few steps Aziraphale was at the destroyed shelf. One hand movement and the boards and books were gone. Where he had sent them, Aziraphale could not say later. At that moment he only had eyes for his best friend, his everything, lying motionless before him. With trembling hands Aziraphale sank down beside Crowley. Something pricked his knee. Crowley's sunglasses. Cracked. A small whimper escaped Aziraphale's lips.

"Oh Crowley, I'm so sorry, I'm so terribly sorry!" He carefully put his hands under Crowley's shoulders and turned him on his back. His eyes teared up when he saw the blood. "Oh no, my dear ..."

"Ouch," Crowley groaned, before slowly opening his eyes. "That ... was something new."

"Oh Crowley, I'm so sorry. I lost control." Tears streamed down Aziraphale’s cheeks. Sobbing he knelt behind his friend and pulled him to his chest, face buried in Crowley’s red hair. Aziraphale had never felt so bad in his entire life.

"Aziraphale..." Crowley murmured reassuringly. "Nothing happened. It’s just a scratch."

Aziraphale shook his head vehemently, unable to say anything. Instead, he pulled Crowley closer. With a faint fluttering his wings opened, which he spread protectively over his friend.

The demon sighed softly and put his hands on Aziraphale’s. He gently stroked his thumb over the soft skin. "Aziraphale, it's all right. I'm fine." When he still received no answer, Crowley carefully freed himself from his friend’s embrace. With a silent moan, he leaned against the nearest wall. Aziraphale did not look at him.

"Come here, angel," he said softly. Without hesitation the angel snuggled into his arms. Crowley stroked his blond curls, whispered comforting words and waited for his best friend to calm down.

"I'm sorry for making you so angry, angel,” he said after a while.

Aziraphale shook his head sniffling. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I should not have said so dreadful things to you."

"It seems like we both were not at our best today."

"No," Aziraphale sniffled, but then laughed softly. "I hit my toe."

Crowley's lips turned into a smile. "I've gotten off lightly then."

"That's true," Aziraphale agreed seriously.

There was a brief silence, but when their eyes met both of them began to giggle. And because the situation was so absurd, both could not stop laughing, and they laughed and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.

There they sat, an angel and a demon, deadly enemies by nature, yet so full of love for each other that neither Heaven nor Hell could ever change that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my little story.  
I'm sure most of you have already noticed that English is not my first language. I apologize for any errors. 
> 
> Lots of love,  
Annika


End file.
